The riddle box
by planet p
Summary: Pre-series Master/Rani.
1. Chapter 1

**The riddle box** by planet p

**Disclaimer** I don't own _Doctor Who_ or any of its characters.

**Author's Note** Pre-series Master/Rani. AU, to my ears.

* * *

He swallowed. The saliva slid agonisingly slow down the back of his throat.

She plunged her hands into his pants and grasped the length of his boy bits in her hands. He gave a small cry of surprise. His hearts pounded in his ears.

Her small hands worked along his length and he almost wet himself with terror, yet it was strangely pleasurable.

He had seen her several times before, but he had never guessed that this was what she would do. She did odd jobs in the laboratory, setting up, cleaning, that sort of thing. She was at best two years older than him, so sixteen.

Her time and her hands were his. He had worked hard for it.

His parentage was of considerable wealth, his friends' parentage of considerable wealth.

It seemed to him strange that this girl should be his prize for outstanding achievement. Not an official prize, of course, just something his friends had thought up.

He might have scowled, only just now he didn't think he could pull it off.

He had thought… the disappointment hurt in his chest.

As for the girl, they were not particularly fond of each other, he imagined. That, if nothing else, stirred a sort of satisfaction in him: that she did not want to do this, but here she was.

Up until now, he had thought it best to avoid her, thinking her to be a witch. She always spoke as though she'd come right out of one of those ridiculous fables, and he had to confess, she had seemed somewhat frightening to him in the past. No longer.

His mind snapped to, and he found his chest heaving. He was barely able to keep himself in control.

The girl led him forward, and plopped her backside down on his mattress. She lay back, her arms held out to him, beckoning.

He hesitated for one beat of his hearts, and climbed onto the mattress after her.

She fumbled clumsily with his buttons. He didn't think to assist her, and it was some moments before she had managed to release his bursting anatomy.

She dragged her underwear over the sizeable lump of her backside, and her hands began to pull on him, encouraging him into her.

He lay there, on top of her, inside her, wondering how she could even look at him, his hearts pounding somewhere else altogether now than his ears.

She hummed tenderly and he gradually adjusted to the rhythm: push, pull, push, pull.

There grew inside him a growing awareness of the pleasure of such an activity and a bizarre almost appreciation for those folksongs he had so detested.

The rhythm increased, faster, harder, and so too did the satisfaction.

A sheet of shining sweat had come up all over her skin. Her chest rose and fell violently, but not without rhythm. It made him want to rip open her bodice to see what it looked like under there, her bosom heaving like that. Needless to say, he refrained.

The climax came, gratifying as it was, bringing with it the greatest sexual pleasure he had felt in his life, only to drain him of all energy.

The girl was very still. She didn't breathe. And then all of a sudden, life seemed to find her again, or at least her breath. She lay there, her eyes blank, and chest heaving.

He was sorry to say, that he fell asleep soon after. He would never, however, admit such a thing to his friends.

She had left by the time he awoke, and he was only slightly upset.

* * *

Oh, he saw her again, and he might wake, his hearts slamming in his chest, from a dream in which she had featured, wet with sweat and something else too, but he made it his best effort to avoid her in the laboratory, although strangely he felt nothing at all for her then, or almost nothing at all.

It had been two years when next he found her in his dormitory again.

She sat on the bottom of his bed, her face cast downward.

He was almost surprised to see her, taken off guard, but all that was forgotten when she stood, and brushed the intricately patterned cloak from her shoulders to reveal that she wore nothing at all under the cloak that was now pooled at her bare feet.

She didn't look at him. In fact she turned her head away. The last time he remembered that she had never once taken her gaze from his.

He strode purposefully across the room, placed a hand around her neck with forceful grip.

"Down," he commanded, and she sat, carefully this time, as not to upset him with any abrupt movement.

He realised then that she was not his alone, and it made him angry.

He brought his hand up and hit her across the face with a stinging smack, skin on skin.

She did not move, did not make to protest.

His chest heaving with anger, he made a handful of her hair, and forced her over and onto her stomach.

He pumped himself inside her, thinking that he might exhaust his anger, and then he forgot about everything, and needed only one thing.

Not once, or twice, or three times. He kept going, until he could hardly move when it was done. He rolled off her and lay on his back.

Her face shone with tears, but not once had she cried out, and she made sure to hide her shameful tears from him with her hands.

He didn't look at her as she left.

Summoning up the strength to speak, he felt her lift her weight from the mattress, felt as the heat of her departed him, and almost wanted to call her back. Almost. "Get out!" he told her, his voice not a shout, but dead, as though he felt nothing at all.

She did exactly as he said… and he felt nothing.

**

* * *

**

Cicero sniggered, Jool at his elbow. Vivian glanced up from the shared workstation. He suppressed a frustrated sigh. _Best just ignore them_, he told himself.

He scribbled in a few values, frowned, glanced across at Cicero and Jool whispering away. They were going to get all three of them thrown out of class the way they were going. Again.

Cicero leant across and spoke into Jool's ear. "The witch is bleeding."

Jool grinned, elbowed Vivian.

Vivian frowned.

She stood at the front of the room. Vivian had seen her before, many times. She was on a grant, he supposed.

She wasn't moving. She was looking down. Vivian looked too.

A line of blood had slipped down the inside of her leg. Blood on her white shoes, blood on the floor. A fresh blob landed on the floor between her feet.

"Watch this!" Cicero was whispering.

Vivian couldn't take his eyes off the blood.

"Hey, witch!" Cicero shouted.

She looked up blankly.

He winked. "You're dead!"

She ran out.

Vivian felt sick.

Jool laughed, thought it was cool.

They always said witches could kill with just their eyes. One look, just one look – stone cold dead.

Vivian ran out after her.

**

* * *

**

It hadn't been easy, he remembered. He'd eavesdropped, bullied, and finally asked in the pretence of some great misdeed. Though, it was in none of these ways that he had finally learnt her name.

Finally, he'd stood outside the room he had learned she was to attend lesson, and waited, at the cost of forfeiture of his own lesson.

He'd watched as the corridor streamed with pupils, though none of them her. She'd been the last. His back had stiffened, propped against the wall, and he stumbled clumsily at the sight of her framed in the doorway.

He supposed it must have seemed to her that he was lunging at her, because she had taken an abrupt step backwards, and connected with the sealed door with a thud.

He stopped in front of her awkwardly and stared instead at the floor. "Ah," he said, his eyes travelling the distance between them until they landed on her white shoes, and he quickly lifted his face. "Ah."

She watched him with fearful eyes that wavered as he watched them and he realised that she felt bad for him.

He scuffed the sole of his shoe on the floor, and diverted his eyes from hers. His hands shook with anger at how foolish he was making himself look. He stuffed them into his pockets. It wasn't her fault.

For a long moment, he couldn't think of what to say to her. His hands hurt in his pockets how tight he was squeezing them. Why was it that he needed to know her name? he bit inwardly.

Across from him, she remained very still.

He stared at the floor. "What do they call you?" he asked distractedly, as though her answer didn't much matter to him either way. The floor was a much more engaging topic.

"My name is Drummer," she replied in a small voice, she too not looking at him, and watching instead, her own shoes.

He reached forward abruptly, and covered her hand with his.

Her chin shot up at the contact, but she did not dare pull her hand away.

"Elddir!" he introduced himself self-assuredly, and then he seemed to notice that he was still holding her hand, and relaxed his grip.

Her hand dropped back to her side as she struggled to process what he had said.

He shrugged, nonchalant, and sighed depressingly.

She pressed her spine further into the door.

He nodded, meeting her eyes, and repeated her name as if considering it. "Drummer."

She stared into his green eyes unblinkingly.

Forcing a smile onto his face, he winked, and turned and strode out of sight in his most self-assured swagger.

* * *

_A pairing I like, but thought needed some background. R&R, if you like._


	2. Chapter 2

**Punishment, Silence**

A Half's punishment was to have one heart surgically removed, for merely daring to be born, a punishment for the child, as much as the parents, who would be able to watch helplessly, with no course of action to act against this, but for her part in protecting the child, in organising the little rebellion she'd whipped up, she had had one of her own hearts taken from her. She did not protest the treatment; she'd pleaded for it, for her to take this punishment rather than the child: to leave a child out on the Surface to perish would be unthinkable, would be despicable, purely evil.

It was true, she did not form emotional attachments to others easily, and they were always tenuous, where they existed, at all, but she would not be the cause of a child's death. The child had been given into her charge at the death of her older sister, and she intended to treat him right. She had been wrong in involving him in her fight, in their people's fight, and now it was only right that she took the punishment for that, and not him. It was never about harming the children, it was about _saving_ them. And so she faced her punishment.

One regeneration was taken, and one heart. If she ever saw the boy again, he would no longer know her. He'd been taken from her custody and his fate now rested in another's hand. She would be sent off-world for "rehabilitation", then back to the workhouses of Pandora.

She sincerely hoped that the boy's father, a Time Lord, would step in, would see him enrolled in the Academy, where he belonged. He was not one of the Fifth, as she was; she was sure his father a First, he belonged with his own kind, with the other First children, in the Academy. One day, he would make a fine young man. She just hoped he was given this chance.

She'd already been given more than she deserved. No Fifth was ever allowed to regenerate, but, yet, she had been allowed. Her older sister, who had been put to death, had been denied regeneration, and the thought that she'd been allowed life hurt her more than the actually punishment, itself. It should have been Het; her sister should have been allowed life. But they had killed her sister, and the baby, too. She'd stepped out of line, had fancied herself equal to the First, when she was a mere Fifth, had willingly and maliciously seduced one of the First for nothing but her own benefit, to plead for leniency in the Half's case, to plead that he be given the rights he deserved, and it had gotten her killed.

Plumura knew that the child's fate was now separate from her own. She would not be given the chance to die for him. She would never again have the chance to die for a cause greater than her own; she would amount to nothing, to no-one, she would remain alone, forever.

She wished they would have just killed her, instead. It would have been kinder. But they hadn't meant to be kind, she knew. They wanted her to suffer. They wanted her to go mad. She was a Fifth; she wasn't worth the dirt she walked on. To hurt a Fifth was only what they deserved, a funny game, and much more than they deserved, in reality, to be looked upon by a First. They were the slave kind, they were born to remain out of sight, out of mind.

One day, she promised. One day, we will be more. One day, we won't just be dirt. We'll be something, too.

She was only a child when she was cast from the only home she'd ever known, from Pandora, from Gallifrey, herself - 12 years old - and left alone, in a foreign land, to fend for herself, with her one heart. She was given no assistance, merely her life and the assurance that her Lords would return in two years to assess the situation with her punishment.

The first night, alone in the dark and cold, she cried for the first time since Het's termination, the wet tears coursing down her face and quickly turning her cheeks to ice. Looking up into the sky and seeing those stars - stars, for the first time in her life - she felt more alone than she'd ever felt in her life, totally without hope. If she did not die here, she would surely be driven half mad; she would emerge, no longer the person she'd once been. Yes, death would have been preferable to this.

Here, she was nothing. Merely alive.

.

When they came for her, she spent some time evading them, always remaining out of sight, always watching them, until finally they broke out the big guns, the tech, and found her that way. She ran at them, when they tried to take her. She fought with every ounce of strength. It took five of them to sedate her. She wouldn't talk to them, would only snarl and snap, and they merely shook their head.

The planet was not desolate, but she had escaped her captors, with great difficulty, after many abuses, determined to go it alone, rather than face further hurt, further pain. That had been five months ago. When they saw the child that was growing within her, they knew just what had to happen. They would not suffer another Half. They were a damn scourge!

They restrained her and waited until she'd regained consciousness to begin the operation to remove the thing. They didn't offer her any further sedation; she needed to know that they dealt with those who opposed them to the full extent of the law, that they took enemies of the state seriously. They cut it out and threw it away; they didn't even allow her to hold it, just once. To do so would have been going too far, would have been too cruel, would interfere with their reconditioning.

Then they brought her home, back to Gallifrey. She would be reintegrated into society and send back to work in Pandora.

But the President had other ideas, he thought that she should be enrolled in the Academy. After testing her, they had discovered that she possessed a high aptitude to learn, to progress, and it could not be denied that she was a strong person. He remembered her sister. Why not let this one live, why not give her a chance? It would be an interesting experiment.

She was given a new name and allowed to keep her memories, through a limited window, and enrolled in the Academy. The first time she laid eyes on the boy again, she didn't even know him. A pleasing result, the President thought. A most pleasing result. The First truly were superior.

.

She danced around the room, light as a feather, keeping the beat easily. His little savage, Elddir thought, his eyes never leaving her body. She truly was a wonder to behold, the way she moved, the fervour she brought to every move she made, the fever she caused within him. He could barely keep from gaining his feet, striding across the room and pulling her to him.

His friends were mildly amused. Scorn underlined all of their looks. The witch couldn't mesmerise them: no, no. But Elddir didn't care what they thought. He wanted her. He didn't care what they said, that she was a witch, that she had a shady history - they heard she'd killed a man with her bare hands. None of it touched him, when she danced, when he was wrapped up in the sight of her.

Whenever their eyes would meet, her gaze felt as though it was scorching him, burning him up inside. Those were the times he regretted having treated her so worthlessly. Whenever he thought of choosing a wife, it was always her he thought of. He couldn't help it. He didn't care who'd had her before; he wanted her to be his alone, he wanted to be the only one. She was his little drummer girl, she started his heart beating again when it felt cold and stiff and ready to give out. She made all of it worthwhile. He knew he would have her. One day, he would have her.

And then no-one would hurt her ever again. Then, his little savage would smile.

That night, they slumbered together for the first time. He held her as she slept, small and warm against him, smelling so bloody great. It made him half crazy, to be able to hold her like this. He could almost smile, but something troubled him. Eventually, he realised what it was: there was something wrong with her, she only had one heartbeat.

Had she really killed a man? he wondered, a burning anger for her overtaking him. How could they have mutilated her like this? What sort of animals were they! He held her tighter and closed his eyes. From now on, he was with her. From now on, no-one hurt her again. He was putting his foot down.

.

His older brother looked at him as though he didn't know him. His mother couldn't even look at him, had fled the room in tears. His father believed every word of it. Coldly, he let his son know that it wasn't a proposition.

Elddir didn't mean to, hadn't intended to, but he was too furious with his father, with them all, to think properly, so he blurted it out: why they _would_ be married.

His father simply and coldly replied, "It will be dealt with. It won't be the first time," and dismissed him.

Realising that he'd effectively sentenced his own child - his unborn child - to death, he ran. _They would not hurt her! They would not harm their child!_

He found her kicking and screaming, writhing in the hold of three guards, her roommates looking on, shooting her dirty looks: Oh, it _would_ have to be her! Couldn't she see they were _study_ing? What a sick freak! About time they took her away, really.

Breathing hard, he made for her, but was stopped by a guard. He made to punch the man but was stopped by another guard.

The young women who'd been watching Drummer now turned their attention to him. Oh, his father was someone important, wasn't he? He was quite good-looking. A lot of girls fancied him. But what was the deal? Why was he here? Surely it wasn't because of that witch?

They exchanged confused looks, a couple laughed.

He stared at them with maniacal intensity and screamed, "Why are you all just standing there? Will you just let them murder an unborn child and turn up your nose and laugh? What's wrong with you?"

They froze, every single one of them, and he realised not one of them was on his side, he'd just lost them.

They turned away and returned to their rooms. Mystery solved, then. The witch had messed him up. That bitch! How sad. Oh well.

They tuned out the young woman's screams and returned to their own conversations, their own preoccupations.

.

He heard that she had fought, that the effort of it had killed her. He felt dead inside, too. As though they'd killed him along with her and the baby. His family acted as though it was such a relief; he just knew he'd never be warm again, he'd never love anyone else again. He'd never be happy, really. He was alive but he wasn't really living, just existing.

For a long time, he thought of letting go completely, of joining his love, again, in the afterlife, but he didn't deserve even that. He'd just stood there and let them take his family away; he'd just stood there and let them kill the woman he loved, the child he would never have the chance to love. He hadn't fought really. He'd been weak. Pathetic. He'd might as well have killed them by his own hand. He was a monster. He lived with monsters, had once believed in monsters. He was sick of the lie, the pretense, the masquerade.

One day, he would be stronger. One day, he would no longer need to pretend. He could be what he was: a monster. And then they would all be so very proud. So, so very proud! he thought, with tears in his eyes.

There was nothing left for him anymore. Nothing at all. Everything was silent.


End file.
